LIBRARY OF CONGRESS. 



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UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. 



By GEORGE KLINGLE. 

IN THE NAME OF THE KING. 

" MAKE THY WAY MINE, and 

OTHER POEMS." 

" LAUS DEO." 

Frederick A. Stokes Company, 
Publishers, New York. 



PERDITA 



A BOOK OF VERSES 



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George^Klingle ci>-^*^^ 







BUFFALO 

CHARLES WELLS MOULTON 

1894 



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Copyright, 1S94, 
By GEORGE KLINGLE. 



PRINTED BY 

CHARLES WELLS MOULTON, 

Buffalo, N. Y. 



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CONTENTS. 

I- PAGE 

Perdita 9 

That Wag of a Brother 12 

Robina's Meshes 15 

The Inquisitive Prior 19 

Ah Me! 23 

The Penitent Monk 25 

II. 

My World 33 

The Unbidden Guest 35 

If Vou Have Loved 37 

The Journey 38 

Nature's Interludes 39 

lusT One 41 

Red Ashes .42 

[oy's Hour 44 

Time's Arrows 46 

For Peace 47 

Joy 48 

Memory-Land 50 

Tide of the World 51 

What of Our Gold? 52 

The Soul's Day and Night 53 

Words Are Immortal 54 



CONTENTS. 

Our Hidden World 55 

The Supreme Voice 57 

Promise of the Unseen 58 

Joy's Price. . 59 

The One Symphony 60 

Unsatisfied 61 

To-Morrow 63 

III. 

Her Haunted Wall 67 

Dreaming Dreams 69 

Fair Love 70 

Brebantio's Legacy 72 

Casa Del Eco 73 

Love's Measure 76 

Blighted 77 

Italy 78 

The Gondolier's Lament 80 

Madaline 82 

The Fisher-Girl's Death Song 83 

The Model 85 

The Outcast's Last Dream 87 

The Unforgotten 88 

Rodrigo's Invocation 89 

The Harper's Lament 91 

The Voice She Heard 93 

Bettine 95 

Their Tribute 97 

Not Blind 98 



I. 



PERDITA. 

PERDITA stole my heart, she did! she did! 
And whirled and twirled me as she bid, 
She did; and stamped her silken clogs at me just 

when she would. 
And shook her saucy head — you know she could, 
And can, 
Compel the heart of any man. 

Perdita vowed she loved me. Mortal man 
May doubt Perdita if he can. 
He can; I could not, would not if I could, and 

humbly vowed 
To love her even in my sleety shroud. 
And do, 
And so, you know, would you. 

Perdita' s fancies have half driven me mad. 
She really, truely is too bad. 
Too bad, but so enchantinlgy, bewitchingly divine, 
And quite entirely mine 

You see: — 
I know you envy me. 



lO PERDITA 

Perdita's maid must twirl and quirl her hair 
Like any pyramid in air: 
Take care to twist it out again, and have it spread 

to bleach 
On pasteboard circle, where the sun may reach 
And bake — 
Gold locks of black locks make. 



Perdita's clogs must be the richest kind 
Of satin ones; before, behind 
Soft lined, and covered well with twists of fillagree; 
Her petticoats of saten must agree 
With them 
From waist to hem. 



Perdita's fluffy skirts embroidered round, 
Sleeves big enough for any gown, 
I found must from Damascus come, or some far 

heathen place, 
Alack ! and then there was her corsage lace — 
And is; 
Truly a shame it is! 



If all San Marco's riches were but mine; 
If I with ducats did but shine. 
And twine my fingers into gold at every lapping fold 
Where doublets could a single ducat hold 



PERDITA II 

I yet 
Perdita's needs had never met. 

Perdita scores my heart she does, she does; 
My ears are deaf with such a buzz, 
A buzz, and when I would be sleeping sweetly in 

my bed, 
I must be twirling in some dance instead. 
And smile 
As if I liked the style. 

Perdita yet will have me dead, she will; 
My limbs are lank; I stoop until, 
Until my breath it goes so weaSened, when I try to 

sing, 
She tosses back her head, and laughs — the wicked 
thing — 

My hair ? — 
A dozen spears stand in the air. 

Perdita vows if I should dare to die 
She would detain me from the sky. 
And fly beside me, but I know, for all, she would 

not go, 
She likes it mighty well below, 
And soon 
Would chant a different tune. 



PERDITA 



THAT WAG OF A BROTHER.* 

TWO friars on their elbows leaned, illy at ease, 
With a tankard of ale and some porridge of 
peas 
Stood midway between them. The question was 

this, 
Which friar of the two should indulge in the dish 
And drink of the ale, for, whate'er was the matter, 
Scarce enough for but one was in tankard or platter. 

To decide the thing wisely might have puzzled, in- 
deed, 
The Abbot himself So urgent the need 
Across the deal table each face cast a scowl 
At the opposite face, yet under its cowl. 
One eye glittered suddenly, and under his breath. 
The merry man chuckled within, to himself 

*' Come comrade;" he said, stroking down his 

smooth chin' 
" I verily think it is time to begin. 
And, as it is plain only one can be fed 
Let us settle the question and hasten to bed." 



*Some of our readers may have heard of the famous traveling stones 
of Australia. Similar stones have recently been found in Nevada: they 
are usually about the size of a walnut and of an ivory nature ; when 
placed within two or three feet of each other they at once start to travel 
toward a common center. 



PERDITA 13 

Now he rolled up his eyes, and Sincerity's self 
Seemed to speak from his lips; " For porridge, or 

pelf, 
Or tankard of ale, no soul would be willing 
To barter itself — come, here is a shilling, 
As I toss it up — no, stay; just suppose 
In this matter we all our reliance repose 
On the will of the saints ? " Meekly, over his breast, 
He crossed himself twice. " It must be confessed 
Such choice would determine the matter entire; 
See; here are some stones from the funeral pyre 
Oi St. Crystom, the Martyr; for many a year 
I have carried them so. I will lay them just here; 
If they stay where I put them the supper is thine: 
If they roll toward each other the supper is mine. " 

Content, the friar opposite crossed himself too; 
Chuckled softly, as ever another might do; 
Leaned back on his chair, his great worsted gown 
Flowing loosely at ease, neither quite black nor brown. 
And tied in the middle with girdle of hemp, 
With a breviary stuck in, and a rosary, sent 
From the Pope direct, with a relic of bone 
Any Saint in the kingdom might relish to own — 
His hands, on his sides so jolly and round, 
Spread out and pressed in, twitching up, as they 

found 
A twinkle of hope, despite that wag of a brother, 
To clutch at the tankard. Two feet from each other 



14 PERDITA 

The little round stones were put on the table; 
Six all in a circle: what could be more stable? 

But the hands on the sides slowly loosened their 

hold: 
Down the spine of the friar shot spasms of cold. 
Straight up in the chair, as a corpse in its sheet, 
Sat the man of the cowl, frozen stiff as the sleet, 
With the breath of his fear: every little round stone, 
As though it objected to being alone, 
Rolled over and over, and nestled together, 
As birds' eggs might nestle close up in the heather. 
While, crossing devoutly the rope on his breast, 
And rolling his eyes to saints whom he blessed. 
That wag of a brother, who carried the stones. 
From the pyre of St. Crystom, or some zone beyond 

zones. 
Without speaking a word the saints to affray, 
Lest perchance he might need them at some early 

day, 
Drew slowly, and surely, as though scarcely able, 
The platter, and tankard across the deal table. 



PERDITA 15 



ROBINA'S MESHES. 

IF I had known Robina had been there — 
That charming, wicked fair, 
With high and mighty air — 
If I had guessed 
She would be so possessed 
To have me dance 
And prance 
In such fantastic styles, 
I had instead walked forty miles! 

If I had known Robina had glanced round 
Intent until she found, 
And had me surely bound 

To twirl about, 
To whirl around, in doubt 
At every jirk 
And quirk 
They pulled me dumbly through, 
I had in running worn away each shoe! 

If I had guessed Robina could have slid 
Me, as she truly did, 
To meshes neatly hid; 
To twist me so 
From dizzy heel to toe, 



l6 PERDITA 

And look askance, 
And dance 
Like shuttlecock blown round, 
I would have flown above the ground! 

If I had dreamed Robina could have twirled 
Me helplessly, and curled 
Her pretty lip to see me whirled. 
As any leaf 
Blown round, beyond belief 
Through such a maze, 

Ablaze 
As any wick of flame, 
She had not played her pretty game! 

But, if Robina whirled me to her will, 
And saw me twirled, until 
They all had had their fill 

Of sport so fine, 

To-day the laugh is mine, 

For I can dance. 

Yes, prance 

In such fantastic style 

They stand aghast the while. 

If then Robina laughed behind her fan, 
To-day she sighs ; ' * That man 
Can dance as any can: 
Ten days ago 
He played us false: ah, woe! 



PERDiTA 17 

Surely he knew 
Our cue 
And seemed a very clown. 
My heart, it aches beneath my gown ! " 

I was quite sure Robina would be there 
Last 7iight, and did prepare 
To stab her to despair — 

The wicked dear — 

Determined to appear 

Skilled in the art, 

Apart 

Whirled round, with will and might 

By Chickabini taught through day and night! 

I was quite sure Robina would be there, 

And every jilty fair: 

I do, indeed, declare 

I was elate 

To choose a maid in state, 

And lead her by, 

To fly 

In such enchanting style. 

Forgetful of all else the while! 

I knew Robina would, behind her fan 
Sigh then; but heart of man 
Must have, when yet it can, 

Such sweet revenge: 

I did myself avenge, 



1 8 PERDITA 

And strut and dance, 

Nor glance 
To let her know at all 
I loved her spite of all ! 

And now I must Robina find, you see; 
Love of such quality 

Defies authority 
And stirs the mind. 
I must Robina find 
And make amends, 

Be friends; 
For I would surely die 
If she, in turn should pass me by! 



PERDITA 19 



THE INQUISITIVE PRIOR. 

IT was the eve of St. Michaelmas, then it is said 
Mortal man may well shrink from the graves ot 
the dead 
Or door of the minster, where wraiths will appear 
Of those who must die ere the end of the year. 

It was dead of the night when the Prior, safe and 

sound, 
With a rope round his middle, touched feet to the 

ground, 
Where he let himself down by the monastery wall 
With a titter of mirth, and a shudder withal, 
And a hitch at his sides — if the truth must be told — 
Which resented exploit so heartless and bold. 

Now he tugged at the rope with its knots in the end, 
And bent himself double its length to extend, 
And chuckled half out to the blackness of night 
As he slid himself free, and peered up in delight 
Toward the loop in the wall where he slid himself 

through — 
A shrewd, crafty trick for a good Prior to do. 

But the truth of it is, as every monk knew. 
The Prior was but waiting to fill a cold shoe 



20 PERDITA 

When the Abbot should die, but, bless me, you see 

He never would die, I assure you, not he! 

Although now of late he had taken to stoop 

And croaked like a throat in the spasms of croup, 

And so, it might be, after all the delay. 

His demise might occur at no far distant day. 



Be that as it would, without waiting for chance 
It was pleasant to strike at the facts in advance. 
And the Prior, conning over the sides of the case, 
Struck a thought, worthy quite of a notable race: 
' ' Should his wraith but appear at the minster- 
door, 
The eve of St. Michaelmas, what could I ask more ? 
I will go; I will see; I will know in advance: " 
He crept through the darkness to learn of his 
chance. 



The lines of the abbey ran zig-zag and grey 

Along the cold sky for a distance away ; 

Its tangles of ivy asleep in the dark; 

Its mossy, stained battlements silent and stark, 

And over beyond rose the old minster spire 

With its cross on the top like a finger of fire. 

And its outlines of beauty defined on the sky 

As wraith of the spirit which never could die, 

But left to the world the thought it conceived 

In mysteries of stone, carved, circled and wreathed. 



PERDITA 2 1 

And flung in bold lines to the distant air 

With enchantment unbridled. Slipping round with 

a care, 
By the line of the trees where the shadows were 

deep, 
Came the Prior, all aglow, a secret to reap 
From the deadness of night, when all lowlier heads 
Were pillowed at ease in the midst of their beds. 

The pines in the close threw their long shadows 

down. 
And sighed as pines sigh, over pauper or crown. 
The breath of the aspens seemed human and near — 
How he shuddered in stopping his breathing to 

hear — 
How he shuddered at stir of the fagots he trod. 
At the stir of the shadows flecked over the sod: 
How he cowered in ambush, then smiled back at 

fear — 
Surely wraiths leave no footfalls for any to hear — 
How he walked on erect, his full girth spread elate 
With the puffings of pride at his wisdom's estate; 
Then, all in a trice, how he shrunk, limb and bone, 
With the creepings of horror, but mortal, alone, 
To see down the way where the road winds round, 
Toward the place where he stood, without rustle or 

sound, 
A procession appear, solemn, stately and white. 
The spectral array of St. Michaelmas night;— 



22 PERDITA 

A maiden he knew, aye, many another; 

Fair babes with sweet faces; the cowl of a brother; 

Men sturdy at arms; woman fairest to see; 

The aged with staff; whom more could there be ? 

He looked. He must know every face to be seen; 
Shrunk gasping and frozen to terror extreme 
He bent toward the line as it slowly swept nigh, 
Drew closer, drew closer — the wraiths breathed a 

sigh;— 
He felt himself moving; he shrunk back amain. 
But nothing so mortal such wraiths could detain: 
He felt himself moving at head of the line 
With pace ordered solely to wraith's pace and time. 
Each hair on his head stood up in affright; 
His eyes, burned to coals, turned to left nor to 

right. 
The procession moved on toward the old minster 

door, 
The Abbot behind, but the Prior on before. 



PERDITA 23 



AH ME! 

MEANDREA'S bonnet on a peg! — it wakes 
My heart to beat till it nigh breaks — 
With bows pinned on; ah me! 
What woman ever pinned them on as she ? — 
And hollyhocks like any garden: 
I dare to gaze and ask no pardon: 
I vow, oh yes, I vow it — 
My love, I will avow it. 

She may toss back her sweet head, having on it 
A pile of feathers or its bonnet, 
And strike quite through poor me 
With her rash eyes; — could she so cruel be? 
And yet, when I turn crimson trying 
With Lord Mariff to be a-vieing, 
Close to his ear she twitters 
Behind her fan, and titters. 

I will Meandrea marry, that I will; 
And strut about in fluted frill, 
And cut a dash, and see 
Her titter back behind her fan with me: 
And I bow off Mariff so finely — 
She can but own I bow divinely — 
I vow, I vow I will it: 
I vow and will fulfil it. 



24 PERDITA 

Meandrea's face I see within the bonnet 
As if the thing were on it; 
I practice, so you see; 
I bow; I bow before it gracefully; 
Surely when I am dressed in filigree 
She will smile now on me, 

Now I have caught the knack — 
Who peeps at yonder crack ? 

Meandrea entering at the door, ah sakes! 
And now she upon me breaks 
With Lord Mariff, ah me! 
Strutting in all his high flown majesty 
In froth and fluff of senseless jargon — 
It was a pretty, pretty bargain 
I drove with Fate for now 
Too late I learn to bow. 

Meandrea giggles outright; bother on it ! 
Had I practiced toward some other bonnet 
Elsewhere, she had never 
Dreamed, although so mighty deft and clever, 
How I became so very polished. 
Nor had my heart been so demolished : 
It is demolished, oh I vow it — 
My love ? dare I avow it ? 



PERDITA 25 



THE PENITENT MONK. 

WHEN the hands of the clock, in the old vil- 
lage tower, 
Were pointing to twelve, that mysterious hour, 
In a dim, grisly nook of a musty old cell 
Where imps by the myriad had chanted their 

spell — 
At least so the story was told and retold — 
Not counting out beads, as good monks of old, 
But grinning and chuckling, and in a good humor, 
A monk, sacked and shaven, was eyeing his supper. 

Now out of the rock, with all safety repletest, 
This cell had been hewn, the darkest, the deepest; 
Indeed, once a cavern of no small dimensions — 
Being hewn out and battered by man's good inven- 
tions — 
It had taken the shape of quite a long oval, 
With nooks and with crannies suspiciously novel, 
Being far enough under the earth's vegetation. 
With little or none of the prized ventilation, 
It may be supposed from varied effluvia 
The air was quite far from being salubrious. 
Far away, through a crevice, with unending 

struggle. 
An ill-fated water-stream oozed with a gurgle. 



26 PERDITA 

And for slime and for mould no match habitation 
Had been sought for and found since the tenth gen- 
eration. 
The Artist who chiseled in holy devotion, 
The bust of St. Catherine would have felt a com- 
motion 
Among his dry bones could he have thrown but a 

shimmer 
Of light on that brow, near which many a sinner 
Had hardened his knees into knobs with long 

kneeling, 
With his beads in his hands and his eyes on the 

ceiling, 
And who knows but the bones which stand out 

gaunt and wiry — 
Skull, framework, long fingers, looking down from 

its eyrie — 
May be of that gentleman all that sustains 
A likeness on earth of his mortal remains. 
Be that as it may, we have no means to discover 
What flesh once hung on those bones as a cover. 
Suffice it to know that an unworthy sinner, 
Who cared for his soul far less than his dinner. 
Had lived in transgression till caged in this dungeon, 
And hearing of soul's food far more than of luncheon, 
Had been found at last with but skin on his bones 
At the foot of St. Catherine as stiff as the stones. 

But, while we are making this seeming digression 
And looking aside both at bones and transgression, 



PERDITA 27 

Our Friend-of-the-cowl of his coveted morsel 
Hath lost not a fragment; by platter and wassail, 
With pleasure entire sniffing odors most savory — 
Not a whit disconcerted by missal and breviary, 
With many a chuckle and many a gurgle, 
And many a hitch at his time-beaten girdle, 
Poking at embers with odd gestulations. 
Blinking aside at the cell's elongations; 
Winking and blinking at passage and archway — 
Hands on his ears, and body bent half-way, 
Laughing and twitching to sallowest crinkles 
All of the sets of his sinewy wrinkles — 
What cares he now that the great combination 
Doomed him to days of profound tribulation ? — 
Wassail and bacon, fagots and tapers 
Swallow most suddenly murkiest vapors: 
Tapers and fagots, bacon and wassail — 
Knew he not well how to stock up his castle ? 
Knew he not well how, in case of transgression. 
How little St. Catherine had in possession, 
How little hospitable odor ascended 
The nostrils of sinners whose knees should be 

bended 
In holy contrition to meet the exactions 
Of heaven and earth, spite of spasms, contractions — 
Should be bended for weeks in most holy oblivion 
Of Nature's requirements of wassail and bacon? 
How he tittered and shook as he lightly exalted 
In thoughts of his shrewdness and how it resulted; 



28 PREDITA 

How, praying to kneel at the shrine of St. Catherine — 
With looks which declared him a penitent's pattern — 
Had smuggled successfully amidst robes sacerdotal 
A reserve most surprising when taken in total. 

If he threw himself backward, then bent himself 

double, 
Stood on right foot, on left foot without any trouble, 
And giggled right out in the keenest derision 
Remembering the Majesty of the decision 
Dooming him days in the earth's dreary bowels, 
With naught but a crust for his sin-tainted jowels — 
Who wonders ? I take it few in his position 
Would have glowed a whit less at his lucky con- 
dition. 
Now, steamy and savory, he places his platter. 
Afresh from the embers, without any clatter. 
Far back in the deepest of hidden recesses, 
Bends low over one of the daintiest messes. 
Lifts up to his lips the bumper of wassail — 
Bat a stir on the air! a clink and a rusde, 
A rattle of wires, a chinking of bones — 
He starts as a hare at the omnions tones; 
He starts and, forgetting the wassail and bacon, 
Forgetting the bumper his lips have not taken; 
Forgetting the tassel- topped heads on their pillows — 
Sleeping waters of power easily lashed into billows — 
He sets up a howl, a yell so enthralling, 
A hoarse hooting howl so truly appalling, 



PERDITA 29 

That all, from the Abbot to every small brother 
Come bumping and jostling, upsetting each other; 
There, front of the statue of many crustations, 
Devout as devoutest, with deep protestations. 
Deep crushed in despair as the down-hunted 

brocket. 
Kneels the man sacerdotal; each eye from its socket 
Out starting and staring, the wildest of Gorgons, 
Writhing and turning in endless contortions, 
While off in the nook where the embers are glow- 
ing— 
Which some imps must be keeping alive with their 

blowing — 
Stands the bumper of wassail his lips had not taken, 
The platter that smokes with the far-smelling bacon. 



If man, or if woman hath had the great pleasure 
Of passing the night with a skeleton treasure. 
And suddenly seen, amid clinking of wire, 
The creature step down and draw up the fire — 
Draw up with a caution, a slowness of pace 
That many might take for a species of grace — 
Pray need it be told to that woman or man 
Why the pewter mug dropped from that merry 

monk's hand, 
When they hear that the bones at the end of the cell 
Walked leisurely down, and pray who may tell 
But the bones were the bones of the good man-of-art 
Who sculptured St. Catherine, the Holy-in-heart 



PERDITA 



Who, catching- afar, by the tapers low gUmmer 
A ghmpse of the face of that most sainted sinner, 
Was stirred, — all his bones — and came forth apace 
To make it quite sure that it was the same face ? 



11. 



MY WORLD. 

MY wine-cup is a chalice 
Which is not wholly mine; 
Unbrewed by mortal fingers 

The fire-breath of my wine; 
My cavaliers who drink my health 

Are butterflies and bees, 
And dragon- flies of rainbow hues — 
Aye more than these. 



My caravels are regal; 

My canopy the sun : 
My pageants flash in gems of dew 

And tissues light hath spun; 
My sweets are webs of honey 

Traced through the hearts of flowers; 
My music fantasies of wings, 

Heart-throbs of showers. 



My guests are loyal to the friends 
They left an hour ago; 

They take no insect name in vain 
On all the horns they blow; 



34 PERDITA 



They revel on the wine of joy, 

Ambrosia from the sun, 
Ecstatic wing through blossom mists 

Where lost brooks run. 

My hours are shod with sandals 

Whose dew-enamelled wings 
Know well the haunts of columbine, 

The wood-heart's sacred things: 
They steal the pollen from the flowers. 

Their honey and the dew, 
They chase the mists of sunset's hours 

And mists of sunrise too. 



PERDITA 35 



THE UNBIDDEN GUEST. 

A PRESENCE hitherto unseeen, 
And past the guarded wall ! 
Forbidden guest, 
Not by request 
Within the guarded hall ! 
A presence radiance hath touched, 
Time's ferv^ent lips have met, 
Life's subtlest dream — 
The watch between 
Hath slept on guard, and yet — 

The soul had built a wall and moat; 
A keep which might defy 

Just such sweet guest 

Or power possessed 
To pause in going by. 

The soul within a haunted shrine 
Has sacrificed at will; 
In silence drained 
Each chalice, stained 
To crimson, Fate would fill. 
It raised its hand to ward away 
Love's presence at its shrine. 



^6 PERDITA 

For well it knew 
Joy's rapture slew 
The lips that touched its wine. 
And now the soul her shivering hand 
Would raise to put away 
The strange, sweet guest, 
By chance possessed 
Within its shrine to-day; 
But, when it turns one draught to drink 
Of joy's pervading breath, 
It knows alone 
Joy may atone 
For all in life, in death. 



PERDITA 37 



IF YOU HAVE LOVED. 

IF you have loved you know 
You would take off your diadem, it 
it were so 
That you could place it where you would that it 
might glow 

Above another life, nor care to wear 
A single joy that other life might bear — 
If you have loved. 

If you have loved you know 
You would to take another's cross, bend low 
And count it gain to bear it with you so, 
However deep the shadow it may cast, 
However strong the girths that bind it fast — 
If you have loved. 

If you have loved you know 

You would yourself forget in joy, or woe 

Which thrills another life, and so 

Forget yourself to please, that you may be 

Perfected unto ministry — 

If you have loved. 



38 PERDITA 



THE JOURNEY. 

A QUIET walk through changing days 
Though breath be hot with haste; 
A placid voice, an even gait, 
And eyes that simply look and wait 
Though all the heart be bound and laced 
To keep hot blood in place. 

An echo heard at intervals — 
Some all-pervading strain, 
Some harmony that sweepeth by, 
Some broken chords that fail to die; 
Some cadence of a lost refrain 
That sends its echoes back again. 

Thoughts drenched all through with human joy, 

Thoughts drenched in human tears. 

These, ever these along time's shore — 

The past, the future evermore. 

The love, the anguish and the fears — 

Through time's impassioned span of years. 



PERDITA 39 



NATURE'S INTERLUDES. 



T 



'O rythmic beat 

All nature breaths — to sweet, 
True measures subtilely replete 
In harmonies untold, 
Though time be old. 

We know 
The rythmic flow 
Of life spreads purple on the hills, or red, 
And then the brown-white stems instead 
Of blooms; stains deep 
Forests that wake and fall asleep, 

And skies 
Aflame at noon and eve for sacrifice; 
Counts for each insect wing, 

Each vocal string 
Of life its rhythmic beat. 
That harmonies born of infinitude be true and sweet. 
All nature breaths to rhythms whether it be 
The pulse of life in stream, or sea, 
Or human breath — nature beats time 
To song and chime 
Of wind and wave; 
Marks off to bar and stave 
The symphonies of space, the roll of seas; 
Light's undulations from far worlds, nor these 



40 PERDITA 

Alone, for spheres to rhythmic beat 
Swing on their way. through centuries repeat 

Their symphonies and go 
On measured course through space, and so 
Creati\'e thought distributes power by interval 
and lays 
In rhythm the key-note of eternal praise. 



PERDITA 



JUST ONE. 

THE soul, behind a bolted door, 
Holds carnival in state. 
Selects its favored courtiers 
To pass its bolted gate. 

The soul no reason stoops to give, 

Explains no which or why; 
A tyrant in a mimic world; 

The all-potential *' I." 

It feasts at will midst pageantry; 

With regal guests perchance. 
Or dines where moths by mystic brooks 

Whirl by in mystic dance. 

It gathers in for company, 

Wits, wags, just whom it will; 

Disports itself in gallantry. 
Or stands morose and still. 

The soul holds many a carnival 
And yet, when days are done, 

The guests steal out by door and gate, 
Save one — just one! 



A 



42 PERDITA 



RED ASHES. 

ND this is death! 
Hear you the breath 
Among the battered carcasses just there — 
Souls sobbing in despair ? — 
Old backs and ribs unstrung 
That once sung 
Well beneath the bow and strings, 
And now by hundreds lie — prone, shuddering things 
Piled up ? They murmur as I speak ; 
Their mellow timbers reek 
With melodies, and cry — 
I know they agonize that I might bid them die 

Before I go, 
That I might cast them to the flame; go blow 
The embers redder on the hearth; be fleet 
I thought to patch and fit to future sweet 
Unnumbered frames; to wed 
Them yet to bridge and bow — hush! overhead 
The rafters hear the throb of souls, they have an ear, 
Such black old beams that year by year 
Have drunken grown with sound — 
Lift me; I fain would look around 

And see 
Where last I sat — across my knee 



PERDITA 43 

My dear old Strad. Paganini loved so well: 
I knew some hidden, darkened spell 
Fell on it as it wept 
'And swept 
To rapture all the quivering place — 
The lights grow dim apace, 
I scarce can see 
Yon armor and the swords and spears ot chivalry, 
Or, on the floor 
The fiddles I shall touch no more. 
You say 
The embers redden on the hearth ? away! 
Dash into flames the souls of music lost — 

Poor fiddles, tossed 
Aside yet saturate with music's breath — 
Together they and I shall meet with Death! 



J 



44 PERDITA 



JOY'S HOUR. 

OY will not come when bid; 
She waits amid 
Sweet silences and comes unsought 
As breath of some far flower brought 

By surprise. 
Joy will not stay; startled at sighs 
Born of a sudden rapture, joy lifts wing and goes 
One sees not where, nor knows 

How long it may yet be 
Before she wall return in ministry. 
Joy's breath is sweet; 
Her lips repeat 
New harmonies subtile as chords of seas, 
As vesper melodies 
The winds intone. 
Joy stoops to breathe upon one ear alone 
And, from repose 
To rapture startle it, as some still string that knows 
A sudden touch, and into music wakes. 
Joy takes 
Sweet liberties and holds 
Our hands within her own, and folds 
Her fingers on our eyes that we may see 
No light but joy's infinity. 



PERDITA 45 

Joy tints the air; 
If dark despair 
Creeps close and startles her away 
Joy's transient hour is worth the price we pay. 



46 PERDITA 



TIME'S ARROWS. 

ABIT of foliage all a-flame; 
The drowsy hum of bees; 
A dewy cobweb on the grass 

Some bird-wing midst the trees: 
The pressure of some passing hand; 
Some fragment of a song — 
The wide world knows 
Such bended bows 
Send arrows fleet and strong. 

A doorway where some foot hath passed 

Some shadow-haunted wall; 
Some little latch a hand hath touched; 

Some leaf a hand let fall: 
Some strain left throbbing on the air 
Unlost though days go by — 

You know, you know 

From many a bow 
Times quivering arrows fly. 



PERDITA 47 



T 



FOR PEACE. 

'O bear and not resent; 
To hear yet not reply; 
To feel the barb and agonize 
Yet hide the wound from other eyes, 
Resentment crucify: 
To feel each caustic word, 
Each little thoughtless thrust, 
Yet simply tear the barb away, 
In silent wrestle day by bay. 
To cast them to the dust: 
To keep the reign of peace; 
To suffer and forget ; 
To seem a soul too dull to feel, 
Yet plant pride's fire beneath the hee 
And trample it; to let 
All else within the home, 
All else within the heart, 
Give place to peace at any cost — 
Whatever may be gained or lost — 
Is but the Christ-taught part. 



48 P£RDITA 



JOY. 

WHAT is the beauty of a flower ? 
Result of causes hour by hour 
At work beneath some fragile stem, 

Some diadem 
Of green, some rood of earth; 
Causes that have their mystic birth, 

In mist and sky, 
In beating storm, in tempest-cry 
Of earth's deep anguish; so true joy 

Is not a fleeing thing, coy 
And unfair, material and possessed 
By those who breathlessly pursue; it hath con- 
fessed 

No haunt but where it grew 
Resultant, in its radiant hue, 
From causes leading back 
Along a wavering, hidden track. 
To love's abandonment of self to broken will, 
To sacrifice for right and truth, that still. 
Unchanging, standing-place where souls decree 
To lose themselves in immortality 
Of love for man, for Christ — to be 

Their own no more. 
The joy pursued from shore to shore 



PERDITA 49 



Is but a fruit, a flower, 
A growth resultant from the power 
Stored by omnipotence in hidden place; 
A natural consequence of certain grace 
In life's pursuit; in standing still; in flight; 
In combat; slaughter's fight; 
Of awe and blood; of keen desire; 
In flash and flame of inner fire; 
In calm; in trust; 
In trampling idols to the dust; 
In grappling anguish and despair — 
Joy springs to flower all unaware, 
Its shaft so frail, its cup so fair, 
The world believes it born of air! 



50 PERDITA 



MEMORY-LAND. 

WE live in a world of shadows, 
We live in a world of dreams 
Where pageants are passing day by day, 
Of light and darkness that will not stay — 
Of love-lights, transient beams. 

We grasp for the passing shadows, 
We drink of the transport of joy; 

We hold warm hands 

Of the shifting sands 
As a child clasps its toy. 

We lose in the glare of the sunshine, 
We lose in the mists of the night, 
The soul we found but a while ago, 
The touch of Hfe that thrilled us so. 
The glow of the mystic light. 

We call to the vanished pageants, 
To the day, with its vanishing beams. 
But we hold no hand but a memory-hand. 
On the wierd, sweet shore of memory-land, 
In the changeable light of dreams. 



PERDITA 51 



TIDE OF THE WORLD. 

OH sands bright as true gold, or white; 
Oh river, breaking into light 
From shore to shore; if we bend downward from 
the rocks, 

Reach till our frail hand interlocks 
With some enticing hand held up to bid us come, 
Then would the music of the rocks be dumb. 

Oh river, dyed 
In azures; tide 
Of the lost world, intensified 
In beauty through false mists, go by! 
Beneath your sheen bereft soul's cry; 
The wail of death 
Mingles with all your rhythmic breath. 
Oh tide of life so freighted down 
With crafts emblazoned — royal as the crown 
Of regal ones — drown 
All your music in the sighs 
Of men your waters sweep to sacrifice 

And Heaven give 
That we but stand upon the rock, and live 
Content and peaceful while the tide sweeps by, 
Touched with the splendor of each transient dye, 
And never go 
A step toward the tide below. 



52 PREDITA 



WHAT OF OUR GOLD? 

WHAT is our gold to us — 
Is it wings ? is it lead ? 
Is it red blood shed 

By some tool we employ 
For diversion or joy ? 
Is it lips to repeat 
Chicanery, deceit? 

What is our gold to men ? 

Is it blessing or curse; 

Is it cord to coerce 

By a jerk of the hand — 
Some tool we command — 
Is it sweetness or gall 
In the drops it lets fall ? 

What is our gold to life — 
Is it weakness or strength: 
Is it spread its length 

On humanity's trail 

To uphold the frail 

Through time's vale of revolt 

To change to exalt ? 



PERDITA 53 



THE SOUL'S DAY AND NIGHT. 

MORNING'S hills dream in mist, 
Light and violet have kissed, 
Yet men shudder seeing day. 
Joy's breath pervadeth time, 
Sweepeth winds of every clime, 
Yet in anguish drift away 
Souls that would not, would not stay 

Night wrenches days apart, 
Freezes warmest breath at heart, 

Yet hands reach to beckon night. 
Souls in this alien clime 
From within them reckon time, 
See day's azures dim or bright 
From internal source of light. 



54 PERDITA 



WORDS ARE IMMORTAL. 



T 



'HEY say 

Words mean but little any way, 
And yet we know 
Words spoken some long years ago 
Come back to give us joy or pain; 
They do not die. Words take new form and live 
again 

In lives made sweet, or turned to gall 
By little words that seem so small 
We would not dream they ever grew 
To heights so great, or forms so new. 

A little praise, a little blame 

May change a heart to ice or flame. 

May change the color of a day. 

Re- wing ambition's flight or slay 

Its languid wing: if we would give, 

To those who nothing ask, who live 

Quite close, more flattering breath, 

More tender words, would life, would death 

Be changed for us at all ? We know, 

By words we heard long, long ago. 

By memories that smile or sigh, 

That words rule lives, they do not die. 



PERDITA 55 



OUR HIDDEN WORLD. 

THERE are portraits we look on at any time 
By sunshine or lamps of the night; 
There are those that we draw from a sacred shield 

And hold by a sacred light: 
There are faces that live in a world of dreams 

In the mystic sheen of the air — 
We bow to their royal diadems 
And they go, we know not where. 



We live in a world of fantasy 

No eye but our own hath seen; 
We drink of wine no hand hath brewed 

And riot in golden sheen; 
We drink of wine no soul hath touched 

But this soul in its hidden shrine; 
We know no joy in the outer world 

Like the froth of this mystic wine. 



We love, but the lips have no words to paint 

To another the vistas of light, 
The peace, or pageant that live for us 

In the world of the inner light; 



56 PERDITA 

Alone we drink ol the froth of its wine, 
We stand in the sheen of its day, 

For souls in this sweet, fair world of ours 
Speak but through a shield of clay. 

We live in a world where a passing throng 

Press close for a touch of the hand, 
Yet alone we drift through our golden world 

In the maze of the hidden land. 
We breathe for joy of the fantasies 

We catch from the dreamy air; 
We know no joy like the worldless joy 

Though we build and know not where. 



PERDITA 57 



THE SUPREME VOICE. 

WHY is one voice the sweetest, 
In all harmony repletest, 
With us still awake or sleeping; 
With us laughing or in weeping; 
Mingled with the thread of labor, 
Mingled with the crash of sabre, 
Mingled with the breath of sighing, 
With the whispers of the dying, 
Mingled with the marshal drumming, 
With the dream of foot-fall coming; 
With the foot- fall going, going; 
With the wind-songs, and the flowing 
Of the waters ever moaning; 
With the songs of day intoning 
Psalms of life — oh we can hear it, 
Reaching ever to be near it. 
Midst life's thunder, or her sighing. 
Through her music — time defying — 
Some one voice is ever drifting. 
One fond melody uplifting 
Thought to some one human face 
Time's scathing hand may not efface, 



PERDITA 



PROMISE OF THE UNSEEN. 

BLUE-BELLS and hyacinths- 
Then a drift of rain, 
Broken stems and battered bells 

That may not rise again. 
Amathysts and emeralds- 
Rainbows on the grass — 
Then the torrid breath of day, 
Parched herbage on the pass. 

Joy's wings across the air, 

Rapture of the song, — 
Then a bird with broken wing 

Swept by the winds along. 
Glimpse within a human soul; 

Touch of human hand, 
Then a sudden silence reigns 

Along life's arid sand. 

Vision of the vistas near; 

Ecstasy's extremes; 
Then, grasping hands outspread 

Toward fleeing, fading dreams. 
Life's rapture and life's cries — 

These saturate all time. 
But ecstasy of life unstained 

Pervades our spirit clime. 



PERDITA 59 



JOY'S PRICE. 

TO measure joy by anguish — -this in time, 
What for the measurement of joy beyond the 
chime 
Of earth's sweet voices ? A dream, 

A flash of thought, a gleam 
Of some infinity, and then we know 
There is a price that we shall pay in woe 
For such keen joy. What then ? 
Would we be mute and blind 
Not dare to find 
The rapture of to-day 
Because it will not stay: 
Would we grope by 
Nor feel time's pulsing light though it may die; 

Would we not hold 
Some human hand because such hands grow cold, 
Or lips forget ? — 
Would we stand back nor let 
Time's promise break upon the sight 
All subtlest hues of light ?— 
To live, to love, to die is anguish but we know 
Joy's rapture floods with light each cloud of woe. 



6o PERDITA 



D 



THE ONE SYMPHONY. 

ID you ever note on the shore of love 

How the footsteps come and go ? 
They are here, they are there, 

But the sea comes up 
Past the foot-prints of long ago. 



Did you ever note on the shore of love 

How the foot-prints over the sand 
Go closer and closer toward the tide, 
Till lost in the kiss of the mystified — 
The foam of the shining sand. 

Did you ever note on the shore of love 
The song of the mystic sea ? — 
' Vho hears, hears naught but its rhythmic beat 
The breath of its symphony. 



PERDTTA 6t 



UNSATISFIED. 

HERE, near the hands, some ruby lies, 
Some amethyst of subtle dyes, 
Yet, past them, rapt and mystified 
The hands reach out unsatisfied. 

Day's humid gold is on the air; 
Day's prismic splendor maketh fair 
All nature, yet we scarcely know 
Day's radiant face; we bend too low. 

Here bloom fair flowers beneath the feet 
Which, dying, crushed, give out their sweet; 
Yet, yet the feet press on to find 
Some flower beyond — the undefined. 

Here breathes the music of a stream— 
We hear not; further on the gleam 
Of lifted waves, the song of seas 
Call and we go — aye, more than these! 

Here voices speak and we reply, 
Yet subtilely there drifted by 
Some words from lips we can not see — 
We reach to them for ministry. 



62 PERDITA 

Love whispers low at every breath, 
Love vowed to us in life or death, 
Yet, heedless, toward some distant shore 
We reach to listen evermore. 



PERDITA 6;^ 



TO-MORROW. 

TO-MORROW a ship will come in 
From some shore of pearls, 
From the deep sea's swirls 
From the land of the is-to-be. 

To-morrow the tide will bring in 

From its foamy ways, 

With its sails ablaze, 
A boat from the dream -wrapped sea. 

To-morrow ? — it whispers and says, 

" I come: on my trail 

Wings a blazoned sail 
From the land of the is-to-be." 

To-morrow a wish will come true: 
Life's wine will burn red; 
To-morrow hath said 

Hope's ship cometh in from the sea. 



III. 



HER HAUNTED WALL. 

JUST there liis shadow fell; 
I see the lines quite well 
As if to-night, he stood 
So tall and proud. He drew away my hood, 
And chose to read 
Quite all my thoughts, and more indeed 
Then I had dared to own 
Just to myself alone — 
That dear, sad night. 
The light 
Fell on him, yet I dared but see 
The shadow off beyond; enough, it seemed to me, 
To stand just so 
And see the lines upon the wall. I know 
His words were true. He did not mean 
To let the long years come between 
His love and mine. He never meant 
To break my heart the night he went. 
So still! 
There is no foot, no breath, no heart-beat, but I fill 
This little lamp, and stand it here 
To cast about a scrap of cheer. 
And look across upon the wall 
And see a shadow — gilded hall 



68 PERDITA 



Could never tempt me from the place 
Where last I looked upon his face; 

Oh, is it true my face is sad; 
Oh, is it true my heart is glad ? 



PERDITA 69 



DREAMING DREAMS. 

UNDER the sunset — shadows creeping- 
Under the twilight, silence keeping, 
Under the vines of the cottage trellis, 
Under the purpled grapes on the lattice — 
Dreaming dreams in the violet twilight; 
Dreaming dreams in the shadowy twilight; 
Sighing now as the weary-hearted — 
Smiling now with the lips half parted — 
Close beside the chiding flagstaff, 
Dreaming dreams beside the distaff — 
Oh, the dreams— the wonderful dreams 
Chasing each other as sunset's beams. 

Under the sunset, still and fair. 
Varying hues on her crisping hair — 
Varying hues where the dimples chase 
Shadows and sunshine over her face; 
Weaving the threads of mystic scenes — 
Under the sunset, dreaming dreams. 



70 PERDITA 



FAIR LOVE. 

LOVE'S face was stormy looking through 
The violet mists above the dew; 
He shook aside the locks of light 
Bent forward in pursuit. The night 
Was past, and quivering day 
Above the moors all purple lay — 
He saw the shaft of morning gold 
Float onward through the dreamy wold, 
And, angered that it passed him by 
Swift clasped his sandals, on to fly. 

His brows were knit and then unbent 
With such a fond bewilderment 
Of tender woe it might have seemed 
No shaft of light that ever gleamed 
Had passed him by — so fair his face 
With eyes of fire and curves of grace 
All light might revel in and stay 
Content, complete the livelong day. 

So wan and fair that face could be, 

So shy in ks intensity 

Of anxious fear; now shook with dread 

Bleached white as snow, then blossom red 



PERDITA 71 

As skies flushed roseate where they dream 

Of sun's luxurient golden sheen 

Just out of sight. Love's face is fair, 

Illumined; neath his shining hair 

The azure darkens in his eyes. 

Love's form is lithe. If it defies 

Space, obstacle, or height or depth, 

Or winds that beat, or even self 

It sways with storms; breathes hard and deep: 

Vibrates at touch; knows breadth and sweep 

Of anguish as it cuts and scathes 

Through nature's heart; bathes 

In its vision but to rise 

And shivering slay in sacrifice; 

Yet love is strength; if it pursue 

Past violet mists and sheen of dew 

And purple moors — the morning's ray 

Saw Love at last and could but stay. 



PERDITA 



BREBANTIO'S LEGACY. 

BREBANTIO gave me a signet ring; 
Something he said of his Hege, his King — 
Something I know, of signet and crest — 
I scarcely mind what, remembering best — 
Well, well it is over; some things that are past 
Cling close in the memory up to the last: 
Take back the ring — more breath! more air! 
Lift me up higher! — and bid him wear, 
Forever and ever, that signet ring. 
Just for the sake of his liege, the King. 
The lights burn low; is it thus you keep 
Vigil, watch when the night is deep ? 
Come closer; the darkness grows on apace; 
Let me touch some hand. When you see his face 
Tell him — nay tell him not, I say 
He remembers the priest, and the bridal day, 
And the trampling feet of the festal train. 
And the misty lights of the holy fane, 
And courtiers lordly, proud and tall, 
And the bride he wed, and mid them all 
The heart that was crushed — oh give me air!-— 
Take him the ring of the King to wear 
But speak not a word of the heart in its shroud. 
That stood in the midst of the festive crowd, 
But see, ere thou leave him the signet ring- 
Flash on the hand of the liege of the King! 



PERDITA 73 



CASA DEL ECO. 



w 



HEN the bowed rocks listen, 
Phantoms in confession 
Whispered through the canon, 
Over Aztec ruin, 
Over fallen pinion 
Of some dying eagle — 
As becomes the regal — 
Wresthng with Death's mission, perchance above 
some altar. 

Bleached from bloody slaughter 
In the suns of centuries, what are lips repressing ?- 
Phantom shades confessing? 

When the voices whisper 
Through some dusky chamber — 
Over bowl, or hammer. 
Shivered axe — or clamor 
Through the vaulted cavern, grimly hanging over, 
What mean the words they utter ? 

Where the hearth-stones moulder — 
Fragments of some boulder — 
Midst their bones and ashes 
Where the red fire flashes 



74 PERDITA 

Nevermore; in the land of silence, 

Where time doeth violence 

Slowly, with such pity. 

And the years die fitly 

Without sign, what say voices sighing, 

Whispers lost and dying, 

Of the winged arrows — 

Scathing bitter arrows — 

Driving life to exile 

From the canon's defile ? 

From the mountain fortress, 

When the cliff-men's palace 

Hangs toward the sun ? 

If, when light caresses, 

Or, from far recesses 

Shrinking back in darkness, 

Murmur many voices 
Where the flitting shadows of the dead swept over, 

Will the Lost uncover 

Secrets of their legends ? 

When the Pueblo hunters 

Look across the mountains. 

At new day's creation. 

In simple adoration 
With hands uplifted mutely till they see the risen 
sun; 

As fire-worshipper rejoices 

As the echoing phantom voices 



PERDITA 75 

Hail the fair day begun? 
When, in centuries past they tended 
The watchfires, love-defended, 
Till time its course had run 
And Montazuma conquered — 
Dying fasting, one by one — 
Were the voices then entreating ? — 
Through the canon's heart repeating 
Its legends of the silent land, oblations to the Sun ? 



76 PERDITA 



LOVE'S MEASURE. 

IF he should pass 
And press some other lips to his, should pass 
And tell to other eyes 
"I love thee," sacrifice 
Of worlds could not atone, 
Or startle her to drink alone 
Some draught of joy. If he to her should say 
"I love thee," and all the world were darkened 

from that day, 
Saved his charmed being, she would yet content 
Live only in the light. If day were spent 
For her forever and she knew 
Fair sunlight's benediction could never thrill anew 
Her dark, closed eyes. 
Yet if, in love's sacrifice, 
He should but stoop and say, 
"I love thee;" it were yet, to her, but light and 
day. 



PERDITA 77 



BLIGHTED. 

SHE was singing as he passed; 
Twining willows deft and fast — 
Twining willows, singing low, 
Eyes all sunshine, cheeks aglow — 
Did he thus at last behold 
Eyes of light and locks of gold 
Matched to some Madonna old 
He had seen — an ideal fair 
Mystic light on lip and hair ? 
Andalusia's fairest maids 
He had scanned in woods and glades; 
Fairest maids from sea to sea, 
But none he found so fair as she. 
He wooed and won the little maid, 
And robed her in the rich brocade, 
And paid her court in regal hall. 
But sad her smile amid it all; 
For, nurtured where the willows grew 
And where the mountain violets blew, 
She faded as a flower that dies 
In sighing for its own blue skies. 



78 PERDITA 



V 



ITALY. 

ICTOR Emmanuel is King of Rome! 
Italy lives — is free. There shone 
A quivering light on her breast of snow 
As she lay in her sleep long ago 

And she slightly stirred while her breath went forth 
From Apennine to Alp of the north. 

But the swathes that bound her were netted strong 
By the sinewy fingers that bound them on — 
It was only a breath she had flung afar 
She was Italy dead — a shrouded star. 



When on other shores with the centuries trod 
Franc, Lombard, Goth, from ashes and blood 
Noble Empire came forth with giant tread 
Grander, by far, than the step of the dead, 
But Italy, land of eloquence, art 
Lay unmoved, cold, dead, with her frozen heart; 
Her name unforgotten, too great in the past 
To be lost, yet aside with obloquy cast. 
While she lay in her sleep 
Proud Monarchies sweep 
The hem of their purple over her face, 
And mar, as they trample, the lines of its grace; 



PERDITA 79 

And a Hierarchy springs from his bosom, whose 
hands 

Sprinkle with blood— rivet her bands, 
Plant on her breast the weighty tiaras- 
Sprinkle with blood of Dantes, Rienzis. 

She awoke and from Piedmont, rom valley and 
hill, 

Swordsmen sprung into birth; a clarion shrill 
From glacier to glacier rung forth, and with blood 
War legions moved on through the purple flood. 
Neapolitan, Luscan, the downtrodden Lombard 
With grasp, and with nerve drew the sword from 

its scabbard. 
And France, with new banners in glory unfurled, 
Over Italy's bosom, held her shield to the world! 
She had stirred, was freed, was aroused — but in 
part — 

The shroud yet tightened above her heart; 

She lived, but the cords that bound her lance 

Were kept by the sword and shield of France. 

Victor Emanuel is King of Rome! 
Italy hath passed to her ancient throne. 
There is rapture that swells on her haunted shore; 
There are voices — their burden is evermore — 
*' Italy lives, she reigns, is free- 
Viva Roma, Capitale d' Italia! " 



8o PERDITA 



THE GONDOLIER'S LAMENT. 

I SAW her face, 
It was not sad; it bore no weary, longing look) 
that I could trace, 

No mystic shadow. Night was deep. 
I saw the radiance of a hundred waxen lights sweep 
Over lip and hair; 
I saw his face the radiance share. 
I knew he spoke. 
The wind shivered along the night and woke 
Strange echoes; in the flood beneath 
My oar blade, in its watery sheath 
Quivered. I know 
They told me, in the long ago. 
That things they call insensate writhe and moan, 
Making of human woe their own: 
I know 
My light craft shivered in the brine below! 
I saw his face — 
Proud, toned with the rich blood of his race — 
But as he spoke, she did not turn aside, 
Nor glance, in yearning, to the throbbing tide: 
I swept a hand across my lute's wierd strings — 
She smiled, unwittingly, nor heard the things 
The quiverihg strings had told. Oh sea, 
Venetia's marbles pale and white, heed not thy 
minstrelsy, 



PERDITA 8l 

Yet, day by day, 
They mirrored on thy bosom lay, 
And moaning to her frozen breast 
Thy waves, with moanings unconfessed. 
Throb on. This be my part. 
To bear the image of a frozen heart. 



82 PERDITA 



MADALINE. 

WHAT if he whispered to Madaline, 
She was only a child of the forests green, 
Winding willows to the song of the leaves — 
To the twitter of swallows under the eaves — 
Her face he would steal with his pencil gray, 
What if he stole the heart away ? 

Madalines's face — the very same — 

Critics, awed, to the easle came. 

Coy are the wings of light renown 

But she stooped, unwooed, to the easel brown. 

She stooped unwooed, and the wide world heard 

The rustling breath that her wings had stirred. 

Madaline' s face! — could the whole be told 
Of the half-veiled eye, of the locks of gold. 
The tender curve of the lip which stirred 
With a changing smile at each whispered word ? 
Madaline' s face with its witchery untold, 
Immortal on canvas, with locks of pale gold; 
Renown for the brush which such witchery could 

trace. 
But what for the heart that was lost with the face ? 



PERDITA 83 

THE FISHER-GIRL'S DEATH SONG. 

SEA, dash thy wild spray; 
Waves, waft my boat away! 
Amidst the reefs where corals sleep, 
Amidst white pearl paving the deep, 
Let me be found — I care no more 
To turn my shallop to the shore. 
Sea, thou a face hath swept; 
A heart, cold but to-day, hath kept! 
Is there no pity, hath my moan 
No answer but the ceaseless groan 
Of seas ? Where hast thou bound him ; 
Where hath thy Majesty enshrined him; 
Where are the lips red but to-day. 
The eyes — my light; my stay ? 
Dash and scorn on — I care ? 
No; pray thee bind about my hair 
With foams as white as mountain snows — 
Sea-weed and foam is on his brow! 
Hasten; I shake along the wind 
The braids he smiled to see me bind 
There echoed where the rocks lie low 
Something above the sea — I go 
To join him where the wild waves beat, 
To share his foamy winding sheet. 



84 PERDITA 

Plunge deeper shallop than before; 
Plunge deeper — on the waves no more 
Proudly we ride, thy breast as light 
As eiderdown on breaker's height — 
Proudly we ride the waves no more, 
Dance gayly to the shell-set shore — 
Thou tremblest ? — my heart is strong — 

Thou tremblest? — Heaven forgive my wrong! 

Plunge deeper! — Bark! — thy timbers part 
To give the sea my broken heart. 



T 



PERDITA 85 



THE MODEL. 

'HE work is done. 

He mixed the colors one by one, 
And touched them in; 
He marked the Hnes of Hp and chin 
And bid me wear 
A ruby jewel, carved and rare, 
Just where he placed it in my hair. 
How dead 
The white, cold ashes on the hearth once red! 
The wall, how dark 
Smoke-wreathed, and stained, and bare, and stark; 
The grim old rafters used to be 
A deal more light, it seems to me; 
And on the floor 
The sunbeam ? — why it gleams no more. 
He stood — I see him now — just there 
And shook the wicked waves of hair 
Back from his face, 
Stepped off a pace, 
And knotted up his brows to see 
The picture, or the paint, or me, 
Not quite as it were best to be; 
Or looked such pleasure with his eyes — 
Such wondrous things of pleased surprise— 



S6 PERDITA 

When all was well. I wonder why 
He stopped that day in passing by, 
And asked, in such an idle way 
If he might come from day to day 
And paint beside the hearth, and trace 
My bodice, or, perchance, my face — 
My bodice braided down before — 
The distaff by the cupboard door ? 
I can not tell; I only know 
He often used to come and go; 
He often stayed the whole day long. 

I wove my willows to his song 
And sighed that days would hurry so; 
Watched through a chink to see him go; 
I can not wear the bodice now: 
It hangs quite out of sight, and how 
Will all the weary days go by ? — 
They shall not know I weep or sigh, 
Or listen for the latch, or wait 
To see him enter at the gate. 
I weave my willows in and out 
And have his face to dream about. 



PERDITA 87 



THE OUTCAST'S LAST DREAM. 

THE storm beats fast, 
She used to wrap me round — =but all is past 
If I had but her hand; 
If I could once, just once, beside her stand — 
But she is dead. Her face ? 
I think her face is bending from its far-off place 
To me. 
Around the bleak winds beat. 
I dreamed, at first, my sleety winding sheet 
Was cold; crept, shivering from the street 
Beneath this ledge of stone; 
Crept shivering and alone 
Beneath this place — 
Her arms are bending with the face! 
I do not feel the torrent beat; 
I feel no sleety winding sheet; 
I hear the songs she sung of old; 
The bleating of the mountain fold; 
The sheep-bells up the mountain side — 

I see, I see — oh, glorified 
Her face, her hands ! She bendeth low, 
Oh touch me, lift me, let me go! 



88 PERDITA 



THE UNFORGOTTEN. 

THE dream is past. I stood where music swept 
Lordly and grand, where throbbing music 
wept 

Through deepened halls, 
And dreamy faces, from the distant walls 
Looked down. 
Where costly marbles, coldly grand 
Stood motionless at art's command. 
Where loitering footsteps drifted past, 
And proud forms swayed, where flowers their fra- 
grance cast. 

And she, the loved, the unforgotten fair, 
With all the glory of her sunny hair, 
Fairer than marble coldly grand. 
Fairer than flowers, than all the loitering band, 
Passed slowly on, with just the same true grace, 
The pure, bright, unforgotten face 
I see alone in dreams. 
How the far sunset, on the humid air, 
Swept through the halls to flood the golden hair, 
The form, the earnest face; one beam 
Supremely beautiful, a gleam 
Of heaven. 
The dream is past. No sunset's drifting gold. 
No music's roll, no statue grand and cold; 
No earnest face, but on the unbroken night, 
Just silence and the pale stars' light. 



PERDITA 89 



RODRIGO'S INVOCATION. 



T 



'URN oft' thine eyes! 

I will not bear them. Sacrifice 
This much, if it be sacrifice, for my sake: 
I for thee would take 
A bitter draught and call it sweet, but this ? — 
I can not bear it! — this ?^ — • 
Turn off thy eyes ! be strong, 
Be strength to me. I do no wrong 
In simply loving thee, but must I bear 
The look turned toward me that thy eyes can wear ? 
Radiant; supreme amid the glittering throng, 
Let me but see thee laugh and frown; belong 
But to the pageant, not to me; 
Forget the hopes now gone; look on me coldly: be 
Quite glad in all thy beauty, tempting me to scorn 
The passion of my soul. Torn 
Into fragments be the past, but know 
I can not bear thy speechless woe. 
Turn off thy eyes! 
Laugh with the festive throng; surprise 
Thy regal courtiers; quite forgot 
To turn and look, to tell me yet 
With eyes so maddening, what of old 
Made dreams light- winged by being told. 



9© PERDITA 

Let me with austere presence stand 

Mutely apart. Command 
Me in cold service with a joyous air; 
I am content, but wear 
The anguish of my heart within thine eyes; 
Show me a double sacrifice; 
From place to place 
Turn to me with impassive face — 
It is too much! — an anguish thou must share 
I am not strong to bear; 
Turn off thy eyes that mine have met — 
Thou loveliest yet. 



PERDITA 91 



THE HARPER'S LAMENT. 

IMAY not touch thy strings to-night 
Egori is gone, is dead. The Hght 
Of stars touches his face, 
And all the frozen place 
Is sad. 

Egori dead, cold, still — is lost, 
His slender, frozen fingers crossed 
Upon his breast; he can not see 
Thy dear old strings again, or me. 

Frozen last night. Oh what a night! 
I wrapped him round, but then, the light 
Was so long coming, and he died. 
I have not told them yet, I tried 
To-day, but then I could not bear, 
For he is dead and they would take him where 
I could not see his face, 
Or wind his crispy hair. 

I can not touch thy strings, 
I am too sad, around them clings 
So much, and I have lost 
The last — Egori lost! 



92 PREDITA 

I see him now, he of the dreamy eye, 
Smiling above thy strings, ItaUa's sky 

Sweeping beyond. 
I hear thy deep, low spell he bade thee bear 
Through citron grove, and balmy air, 
But as I dream of friends and home 
I wake to fear no throbbing tone; 
I own thy silent heart alone. 



PKRDITA g-^ 



THE VOICE SHE HEARD. 

THE candle flashed along the wall; 
Along the andirons grave and tall 
The fire-forks flickered in and out — 
He whispered low: The winds without 
Beat at the sash, the oaken door, 
And sighed as winds sigh evermore; 
The pines beat, moaning, toward the thatch- 
She stayed her breath his words to catch. 

The crane hung high above the fire 
Where it had hung for many a sire; 
The chimney tiles some story told, 
She used to listen to of old; 
Beneath, the foot- worn oaken floor 
Sighed low of love-words heard before, 
And overhead, the rafters too 
Bowed down to speak — she only knew 
The words he breathed upon her ear; 
She stayed her heart the words to hear. 

The clock tolled slowly from the wall 
Love's shivering legends to recall; 
The trinkets shining on her breast 
Some fragment of the past confessed; 



94 PERDITA 

A wraith of Love bent low to see 

How like Love's eyes of light might be 

To those which once burned still and deep 

The vigil of their past to keep, 

And would have told her to beware — 

She only knew his heart was there; 

This, only this, she truly knew. 

His heart was love, and love was true. 



PERDITA 95 



BETTINE. 

HER bodice was of scarlet and her petticoat of 
gray, 

Her wooden shoes — 
Oh, who could choose 
Shoes daintier than they ? 
The crimson of the sunset was flooding all the air; 
He saw its trace 
Along her face 
And mid her braided hair. 
The glad brook flung its music and the robins, 
fluttering near, 

Were twittering low 
And loath to go 
Seemed loitering to hear. 
He told her that he loved her; he told her nothing 
more 

Than woods had heard. 
In whispered word, 
For centuries before. 
But the crimson ' neath her lashes, and the bodice 
fluttering told 

How new each word 
The robins heard, 
Unknown to her of old. 



96 PERDITA 

Oh, many a bodice scarlet; oh, many a skirt of gray 
And shoes of wood 
By brooks have stood 
But none as glad as the)^ 



PERDITA 97 



THEIR TRIBUTE. 

THE world has scorned him; to the wall 
Had turned his canvas; bent not to the call 
Of Genius speaking clear 
And asking to be heard. Near 
Was a canvas on the easle-stand, 
A palette in the frozen hand, 
One night when someone came, 
Swept by a sudden fear, to speak his name. 
The broken chair was in the old, old place 
But on the silent, peaceful face 
Was no desire. The world ? — it bore him forth in 
state; 

Carved letters on the royal gate 

To speak his name, 
And wrote it on the scroll of fame 
In burning gold, 
But then the broken heart was cold. 



98 PKRDITA 



NOT BLIND. 

BLIND ? — rather say I see 
Past distances of time, far toward infinity 
Not blind. I know 
The tide of Hfe beats low, 
That Darkness folds 
Her hands before my face, and holds 
Me though the sun 
Touches each marble form, each chiseled, sacred 
one 

Which I can see as though 
I had no need to go 
Groping with hands outspread, and yet — not blind! 
Love bade me, long ago, to find 
In touch, that lost, sweet sight, 
And now ? — I know a subtler light 

Which glorifies the day. 
Touch thou this curve and say 
If it be true or false to beauty's test; 
If chisel yet, possessed 
To find in stone some prisoned from and set it free, 
Wrought unto mastery 
Such curv^e being blind. 
Know thou I see. By subtlest light defined, 
I look within the shrine 
Where Beauty's form divine 



PERDITA 99 

Waits, midst unshapen stone, 

In silence and alone 
For me to come. Yes, I can see 
And thou who most art blind, wouldst pity me. 



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